Eidolon
by Catwings1026
Summary: Vignette centering on how Skulduggery could return during the upcoming DARK DAYS novel. This assumes that Valkyrie has attained mastery of the necromancer powers as well as posession of the skull.


Eidolon

_You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body._

_- C.S. Lewis_

**DISCLAIMER**: Not my characters, not my books, no offense intended to Derek Landy or his representatives. I'm just passing time until the next book comes out… please read and respond; it's been ages since I wrote fanfic, and I may be rusty.

**Author's Note:** A "drabble" is a short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length, Wikipedia tells me. I had no clue. It's an interesting dialect, fanfiction. At any rate, I suppose what this story would be is a _vignette_, a short work outside the realm of the traditional plot format – exposition, rising action, climax, denoument. I'm older than most SP readers, old enough to prefer an eventual S/V pairing but to also understand why the younger crowd prefers F/V (and why some, in fact, are a bit grossed out by the prospect of the former. It's rather like realizing your parents have sex… icky, to say the least.) So I wrote my own version of Skulduggery's return, challenging myself to make both camps happy. Or at least, make the younger crowd less miserable by their inevitable defeat, in this case.

By the by, an _eidolon _– again, thank you Wikipedia – "is the astral double of a living being; a phantom-double of the human form … after death, before its disintegration."

* * *

The energy lanced out, playing over the skull, spiderwebbing over it. Fletcher's eyes went wide. His body stiffened, then fell forward, as though in slow motion. Something glowed like an ember on the back of his neck, a burning symbol fading as he fell. Valkyrie heard someone scream, but it sounded distant, a world away. It sounded like her own voice. The skull in Fletcher's hands shattered with a sound like thin crystal shattering – a singing, fragile sound.

The portal flared, then began to close.

"No!" Valkyrie heard herself closer now, and her shadows leaped forward at the cry. They swirled around the portal, caught in its vortex. Energy flared again, red lightning biting the shadows – but now something else stirred within, something vaporous and milky white.

Energy crackled, licking over the growing paleness, but the mist crept from the portal, flickering with the effort, like a projection gone bad. It twined with the shadows, not fighting them but fastening to them, an anchor of insubstantiality, dragging itself forward against the vortex even as the portal shrank about it.

A sound that was not sound made itself heard… more a tension than a noise, a temperature inversion given a voice. Something was behind the mist, within that otherwhere.

"We have been noticed!" Wreath's voice. "Close it – close the gateway!"

The white thing made a final wrenching thrust, pushing free of gate and shadows – and dissipated. Valkyrie felt Wreath seize her shadows with his own, his can-whip lashing out, yanking them away, as the not-sound grew, and a presence touched the rim of the gate…

The gate snapped shut with the barest of pops, like an ear clearing itself of a pressure differential.

Valkyrie fell to her knees, every muscle trembling, not wanting to look at Fletcher's still form on the grass, not wanting to hear the silence. She knew he was dead. She felt no breath, no heartbeat, had sensed his death-energy joining with her own shadows in the last desperate attempt to hold the gate open. Her eyes wandered over the grass, where fragments of skull caught and held the moonlight. She saw Ghastly kneel by Fletcher's body, turn him over with infinite gentleness, as though he were made of some fragile cloth… saw the sorrow cross his face, watched him close the still-open eyes.

Fletcher was dead.

Skulduggery was not among them.

Futile. Useless. She allowed her eyes to move to China, who was gazing at Fletcher's body, her expression unreadable. Valkyrie found she did not have the strength left for rage – only a coldness, a spreading numbness.

"You killed him," she said. A statement, not a question. She wanted it to be an accusation, wanted to hurl rather than drop it – but she could not.

"Mr. Renn was too dangerous to live," China replied evenly. "We could not risk him falling into the hands of another Diablerie and re-opening the gateway before our side has gathered enough strength. He understood the risk he posed."

"Murder wasn't part of the plan."

"Not your plan, perhaps. But Mr. Renn was willing to die to return Skulduggery to us – a noble sacrifice, and one countless warriors would be honored to make."

"But Skulduggery didn't make it back!" This from Tanith, who had broken free of the shock to round on China. "So it's a waste, Fletcher's death. Not a sacrifice – unless you mean it like the Ancients did, when the victim wasn't part of the decision!"

Valkyrie felt the silence settling around her, almost tangible. She was dimly aware of China answering Tanith, but her words were mere sound, a voice heard through an impossibly thick wall, and other voices joining in – Wreath, Bliss, Ghastly. Voices, but not words. Her fingertips buzzed. Her head, full of cotton wool, felt impossibly heavy. Tanith's voice, rising and angry, rose above the others – but still, it was as distant as the cry of a gull over the sea. The barrier of weariness, of grief, came down over Valkyrie like a glass wall.

Fletcher. Gone.

Skulduggery. Gone.

Hope.

Gone.

She was alone.

"Valkyrie…" A voice, soft, probing through the silence around her. "Valkyrie."

She did not want the name anymore. Wanted to say, _I'm Stephanie. I'm not Valkyrie anymore. _

Wreath. He was stepping up behind her, his shadows coiling about her, feeding her his strength. She tried to bat them away – didn't want them, didn't want to re-enter a world without Fletcher, without Skulduggery. But Wreath's voice was insistent now.

"Valkyrie! _Look_."

The mist – translucent, nearly transparent – had returned, hovering over the people gathered below, some meter in the air. Nobody seemed to notice. Valkyrie's eyes narrowed, and she glanced at Wreath. No, _he _noticed. And she noticed. Which meant…

As she watched, it seemed to condense. From the merest wisps of vapor, it became a mist, then a fog… almost a cloud, almost with a form, but shifting, pulsing, more an amoeba than a distinct form. It hovered above the arguing, animated forms below it, as if studying them… Valkyrie wondered if she should call out, draw their attention to it, but a look at Wreath, a single shake of the head, held her still. She managed to rise to her feet, eyes fixed on what the others could not see.

The mist circled, dipping low over Fletcher's still form. It hesitated, pulled back, and Valkyrie thought she almost felt… something… as one tenuous thread of vapor reached out, like a finger to the dead boy.

"Fletcher?" her voice was the barest of whispers. Could it be…? She stepped hard on the spark that lit within her, even as Wreath answered her, his voice a matching whisper.

"Not Fletcher." Then, his hand on her shoulder, a pressure, a command. "Give him permission, Valkyrie. It's the only way, or we'll lose them both. Give him permission!"

Her mind lurched. Him? Give him permission?

The mist seemed to notice her then, and again she sensed an awareness… a consciousness that brushed her own… something almost familiar, almost…

As though she had spoken, the consciousness pulled back, away from her, and the mist began to spread and drop, an insubstantial blanket settling over Fletcher's body. It glowed now, a pale film that conformed as it settled to every curve and crevice of the dead boy's form, adhering to skin, to clothing, hair… and sinking through them.

Valkyrie was aware of the silence now – complete – and she realized that the others had noticed the glow, and were staring now, at her, at Fletcher. In another moment, the glow had vanished completely.

Fletcher's body bucked suddenly, convulsing, and Valkyrie cried out as his heart, so recently stilled, contracted. She could feel it, feel it squeezed, as if by an invisible hand, and flutter, stutter, then resume beating. Fletcher's limbs splayed, quivering, then abruptly relaxed. A shuddering breath rose in his chest, then exploded into a wracking cough. His eyelids fluttered, then opened, pupils dilated, and before Valkyrie's staring eyes, Fletcher Renn trembled, braced his hands on the ground, and pushed himself upright.

His eyes found hers first, caught and held her, as though in that moment she were the only other person under the night sky, and his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, words without a sound.

Then, in a voice that was most definitely not Fletcher's, he spoke.

"I think," Skulduggery's voice said, sounding weak and raspy from the unfamiliar throat, "that I will be very, very sick now."

And he rose, staggered a few steps backward, turned, and vomited.

-00-


End file.
